


Boxed In

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author has never traveled to Manchester or any other part of England, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, Lestrade Whump, Other, but we're all going to be friendly about that, posted chapter by chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: Greg goes missing, somewhere between the Manchester police station and his hotel.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Boxed In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Echo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo/gifts).



It was dark. Had there been a power outage?

It was dark, and cold. Why was he so cold? 

It was dark, and cold, and he was lying on a hard surface. He tried to move, to get his face off the rough ground and was marginally successful, but not without cost. Anything he moved hurt; ached, or strained, or throbbed. More pain than could be explained by falling asleep on...the floor? 

He groaned weakly, breath stuttering rapidly. 

“Don’ panic. C’mon Greg, figure it out. Don’ panic.” God, he could barely form the words. Result of the cold? Or...was he drunk? No. No, not drunk: injured. “Gotta call…no.” His pockets were empty. He hauled himself onto his hands and knees, to scrabble along the ground. The floor was rough, his groping fingers finding gouges and dents in the surface, patches swollen with damp, but no phone. 

As he’d moved about, he’d become aware that it wasn’t completely dark; a few narrow patches of light showed above his head, cracks where a ceiling met wide corrugated metal walls. Despite the odd flatness of his vision, he recognized the space. He’d been put in a shipping container.

Sherlock would decry the lack of imagination, although Greg thought this was quite imaginative enough, particularly given they’d also had enough common sense to part him from his mobile. And anger to beat him fairly thoroughly, too. The flat quality of his vision was explained when he brought his hand up to probe a throbbing cheekbone: his left eye was swollen completely shut. Further exploration revealed a tender patch on his head, which explained the headache, and blood from a battered lip dried on his chin. Probably bruises on his arms, legs, and back, too, if the twinges and stiffness were any indication. 

At least they hadn’t killed him outright. 

First question: were the doors locked? Greg pushed to a stand, stumbled to the other end of the crate and pushed at the seam of the opening. It didn’t budge. 

Right. He hadn’t really expected it would. His muscles protested so much effort, and he lowered himself to the floor, leaning into the corner where the walls met. 

Next question: Where was he? The light filtering in suggested daytime. The last thing he remembered was leaving the Manchester station, early winter dark falling as he made his way toward the hotel, intending to check out and drive home instead of staying another night and leaving in the morning. He remembered thinking that it’d be a nice surprise for Sherlock and John, getting home the night before so they could spend the whole of Sherlock’s birthday together. If that had truly been the last thing he’d done before whatever happened -he guessed an ambush- then he’d been gone for several hours. Not much use in narrowing down his location. 

Shipping yard? Not necessarily. Probably not. Yards had security staff, cameras, and lots of activity. They also tended to have new containers, or ones in good repair, which clearly this one was not. Used containers were sold all the time, people converting them into art studios or coffee shops or whatnot. 

Tipping his head back against the metal wall, he admitted the truth: he was trapped. Injured, with no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there, no way to communicate with anyone, and utterly at the mercy of whoever had put him here. 

~~~

Sherlock and John had just settled in with coffee and the pastries Mrs H had left on the table with a note wishing Sherlock a happy birthday. “What time’s Greg supposed to be home?” Sherlock asked, stretching his long legs beneath the table and stroking his toes down John’s ankle.

John didn’t bother protesting, just pulled his legs away and put them up on Greg’s chair. “Two, I think. Afternoon, anyway. Just a bit of paperwork to finish up, he said, and he’d leave right from the station.” 

Sherlock nodded and bit into his cruller, giving an obscene moan as he did so. John rolled his eyes. “Right. That’s enough of that. How ‘bout we get out of here for a while?” 

“I thought you wanted a relaxing day in?”

“I do. You, however, do not. You’ve been a menace all week; don’t think I don’t know the real reason.” 

Sherlock arched a brow. “Deduced it, have you?”

John shook his head. He hadn’t needed to, not really. “I miss him, too, you know. Come on. We can go to that music shop you like.” 

“Hmm. I am just about out of staff paper.” Sherlock stood and headed toward the bedroom, leaving John to pack up the pastries. His voice came from the bedroom. “We’re going to the bookshop, too. It’s my birthday so I get to choose.” 

The cold January morning wasn't fit for walking, so they tucked their hands into their pockets and started briskly toward the taxi stand one street over. The foot traffic in London never really stopped, and they had to slow down to match their pace to the prevailing speed of the modest crowd. They were halfway down the block when John’s phone buzzed. “John Watson,” he answered it, ignoring Sherlock muttering under his breath about the person calling probably knowing who they’d called. 

“John, it’s Sally Donovan. I hate to disturb you, but can you have the boss answer his phone? Manchester police are trying to reach him.” 

John stopped in the middle of the pavement, much to the disgruntlement of the couple walking behind them. Sherlock took his arm and steered him into an alcove between buildings. “He’s still there, though.” 

“No? He told DI Spelling he was leaving right away yesterday evening. He’s not at the hotel. He should’ve been back last night.” 

“He wasn’t,” John said tightly. “When did Spelling see him, and did anyone at the hotel see him after that? Is his car still there?” 

Sally spoke so sternly John could almost see her raising her hand for patience. “Until just this moment there was no reason to ask those questions. We will now. Do us all a favor and don’t go haring off to Manchester, right? We’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Right, yeah, okay.” John didn’t sound convincing even to himself. And as soon as he explained to Sherlock, who stood at his elbow trying to hear both sides of the conversation, there was no way they weren’t getting on the next train. He only hoped he’d be able to convince him to stop home to pack first.


End file.
